The best English we heard in Scotland was spoken by a Russian. Andre and his wife, Maria, shared breakfast with us twice at the Bell Craig House in St. Andrews. They weren't there to golf, though the first tee at the famed Old Course was a mere two blocks away. They were there to visit their son, a business management student at the prestigious 600-year-old St. Andrews University, just down the storied, cobbled street. Andre, who lives with his wife in Moscow, learned English at school, but working for Price Waterhouse has given him fluency. He's current on American politics, and we enjoyed a nice conversation about the present global financial situation.----------------------------------------
Best dinner
The best food we ate in Scotland was served at the Davidson home in Aberdeen, by Kenny, who also wins a vote as the archetypal man's man.Personal circumstances put him in the kitchen as a wee one; he's now an expert hunter, fisherman, sportsman, outdoors man and whisky drinker. Briefly a roughneck and member of the Royal Air Force, he's
a career phy ed teacher, and counsels and coaches youth about snowboarding, skiing and . . . sexually transmitted disease. An enthusiastic golfer, he once had a heart-attack on a fairway and walked himself in, leaving his clueless mates to finish the round. A long-time friend of our gruppen fuehrer Danny Martin, the plucky Scotsman invited over both our foursomes and teed up an eight-man buffet of ham, smoked turkey, prawns-au-melon (click on the image), red potatoes (one garlic, one plain bowlful), fresh veggies and icy salads.
Oh, and a yummy chocolate dessert for our gourmands, (at left) of course. Then his lovely, accomplished, health-care services bride, decades his junior, arrived with their young red-haired daughter, in perfect time to warmly greet the departing grateful, sated guests and head up a post-party cleanup effort for her weary partner.
Thus bolstered, the next morning our Scottish host played an energetic 18 holes with his American friends at Peterhead. Truly a Scotsman for all seasons.
Best bangers
Every bed and breakfast in Scotland, as far as we can tell, serves bangers and bacon with eggs and blood pudding. The bacon isn't bacon, it's a very hammy Canada slice, and bangers are sausages.
The best we ever ate were at the St. Olaf Hotel in Cruden Bay, and served to us by James, (left) a polite 18-year-old who's been to chef school at nearby Hatton College, and aspires to someday cook for big bucks on a North Sea oil platform.
We probably liked his bangers best because they had more texture and bite than the softer, mealier, versions at the St. Andrews Bell Craig House or the Craigallachie Highlander Inn (at right - click image to see the pepper). James' performed almost like a premium Jimmy Dean.
All the breakfasts were good and substantial and lasted through a complete 18 holes of golf that always ran past lunch into the mid-afternoon. Scottish courses don't always have a "clubhouse turn" with sandwiches... and never a "cart girl" with snacks, so a big breakfast is a must. And you're walking clubs up and down the glens, never riding.
One day, just for educational purposes, we chose the breakfast Aberdeen kippers and oat cakes (left) at the St. Olaf. This brightly-flavored salt sea offering was a good choice, and did last through 18 holes of golf, but in a repeating and re mindful way, and not ideal for one's concentration on the duties at hand.
Worst credit card
"American Express, don't leave home with it," they joke around Scotland. Poor Danny Martin relied on this powerful American icon as an old reliable, but was chagrined to learn that thrifty Scots simply don't take it, given its fee-laden policies.
Restaurants, hotels, golf clubs, even the Royal Bank of Scotland looked down and sadly shook their heads at our frustrated leader's plastic. Fortunately, Danny was traveling with friends and able to cope, and a few phone calls back home (right) got his assets transferred to a more useful banker.
Runner-up for worst has to be GM Mastercard. Despite being informed of my impending departure from usual spending habits, and being given a specific itinerary, Mr. Mastercard slammed the cash drawer shut when I attempted to purchase a $100 bottle of cask-strength hand-filled single-malt whisky, aged in a bourbon barrel, from the Chivas Bros. at their Aberlour Distillery in Craigellichie. Fortunately, a quick swipe from Mr. M & I Visa, who had been similarly warned and informed, solved the problem.
It took an expensive follow-up phone call in a chilly red phone booth, using the special international number I was given when I made my first notification, and then a series of confusing security questions about my checkered past (have you ever lived on Lyndale Ave. North in Minneapolis? Your wife's birthdate?) before Mrs. Mastercard put me back on the "A" list. "It's just an automatic block, sir, and we apologize," the scripted voice intoned. So why is that, please? Or could someone have possibly screwed up? (Calm down, Stan)
Oh well. It's been a long time since being refused at a liquor store. Made me feel downright youthful.
